


sin to see her again

by abatt0ir



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice (Cartoon 1989), Beetlejuice - All Media Types, Beetlejuice - Perfect/Brown & King
Genre: Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Lapdance, Rope Bondage, Rough Sex, Sex Work, Teasing, blue balls dot jpeg, inappropriate use of a necktie, unsafe bondage pls dont do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abatt0ir/pseuds/abatt0ir
Summary: sometimes u get a nasty plot bunny stuck in your brain and you cant focus on anything else, because you're a dyed in the wool pervert.sorry for putting my grubby li'l hands all over your lovely oc clair c:
Relationships: Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/Original Character(s), Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	sin to see her again

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes u get a nasty plot bunny stuck in your brain and you cant focus on anything else, because you're a dyed in the wool pervert. 
> 
> sorry for putting my grubby li'l hands all over your lovely oc clair c:

Sometimes, when Beetlejuice shows up at Dante's Inferno Room, it's like a hurricane hits the place.

He has a manic energy the girls tend to find...infectious ("like chlamydia," Madame Bouriseau had once drawled disapprovingly); he shows up, usually unannounced, with fistfuls of coke and a glint in his eye that says "lets party like it's the end of the goddamn world".

(For the dead, this is sometimes an enticing prospect.)

When he arrives on this particular day, though, he is no hurricane. There's deadly certainty on his face, in his stride, usually smirking mouth a grim line, jaw tight, grinding his teeth. He's the calm _before_ a storm, a livid, black cloud, the kind you stare at all day with doom in the pit of your stomach, wondering when it will crack open and very rock the foundations of the earth with lightning and thunder. 

Poppy, who has the ill fortune of manning the front desk at this particular moment, makes a squeaky noise of righteous indignance when he slams a fistful of cash down on the counter. " _Jesus_ , Beej-"

Shaking a hand at her in what Poppy grumpily accepts as a signal for _shut up_ , Beetlejuice taps the stack of cash with one filthy nail. " _Where is she._ "

If rolling eyes was an olympic sport, Poppy would win the gold. "In the lounge-"

He's already through the archway into the lounge before she can finish her sentence, so she's forced to yell it at his retreating back. "She's with a client! _Hey_!"

_\---_

_THREE DAYS EARLIER._

Lamia doesn't give private dances to just anyone. 

It pays to be selective -metaphorically, not literally, in her line of work it literally _does not pay_ to be choosy, but it gives her peace of mind, gives her _control._ She finds peace and satisfaction in the careful guarding of her time, her space, her body, sharing those things only with a certain calibre of customer. 

And then there's _Beetlejuice_. 

If Lamia's life (afterlife) is a locked chest, Beetlejuice is the rat that chewed its way through the lid - she often says she hates him, sometimes she even means it, he's frustrating in a way most men aren't because men, even in death, are _simple_. The ones she sees regularly, her carefully chosen rolodex of Johns, view her as an escape. To them, power is a burden - The Witch takes that power away, and wields it with beautiful cruelty. It satisfies their need for subjugation, her need for domination, all parties leave satisfied. 

Beetlejuice _isn't_ simple. Worse, he sees right through her, right down to her marrow, past the severity and the cold glances and the cutting remarks, and he wants _that_. That part of her no one else gets to see, because...because he's a greedy asshole? Because he gets off on messing with her? Because he _likes_ her, plain and simple, but saying that out loud isn't half as fun as baiting The Witch until she hexes him into next week? 

He was a hurricane, today. Pockets empty, of course, because he's in most of the girls good graces and can con his way into free drinks. Lamia leans in the doorway, watching him discombobulate Zia, the bartender, with his fast-paced patter, watching him smacks Bambi's generous ass as she lounges on the couch, watching him generally make a production of being there. _Asshole._

And then he spots her, and he can't resist, not when she's staring at him the way most people stare at gum on their shoe. Sidling over, he immediately oversteps, putting his hands on her hips and dragging her in close. "Don't think I don't see you over here undressin' me with your eyes," he rasps, leering. "Howsabout a private dance, eh Ice Queen? You can put it on my tab." 

(He has a tab a mile long, but he's been given an inch, and is going to _take that mile_.)

Lamia sees an opportunity, the opportunity for a _lesson_. An opportunity to take back some of that precious control. She tosses her curtain of dark red hair over her shoulder, cocks her hip, fixes him with a smoldering look, all the fires of Salem burning in her gaze. 

"Why not?"

\---

Up in her private suite, the music is muffled, but not much. A dark, throbbing beat echoes up through the floorboards, lilting lyrics not quite discernible over the thud of the bass. She circles him, a shark, a poisonous adder, a _predator -_ "I think I like you best like this," she murmurs, standing behind him, sliding her hands down his chest, down but not quite to his belt, before trailing back up to linger, just for a moment, at his neck.

His hands flex in their bonds, tied neatly behind his back with his tie. He's seated, legs spread, jacket left on the landing - she wouldn't call it eagerness, just confidence. Arrogance, even. His posture, even in bondage, is one of absolute certainty, his body language loose and relaxed, his gaze hungry. "That so, babe? C'mon, gimme a little sugar, it's been a helluva day."

(Days, as we might recognize them, don't truly exist in the Neitherworld, but we hold onto the familiar.)

Standing before him, Lamia places her hands on his shoulders, bends at the waist, brings her face to his, inhaling the smell of freshly dug grave, her lips a hairs breadth from his - and snaps her teeth in warning. 

He flinches, which makes her smile.

He chuckles, "I get it, _I get it_ , kitty's got claws, sure, _whatever_ , you gonna make this worth my while or what?"

 _Objectively_ , she knows he's goading her, that this is just part of...whatever this is, between them, that he likes to rile her up just to watch the cracks appear in the facade. _Subjectively_ , she kind of wants to hex him. 

"Worth _your_ while?" she purrs, revolving slowly in place, turning her back to him - she can feel the heat of his gaze on the sleek curves of her waist, hips, legs (he's _definitely_ a leg guy). With an ease borne of a hundred years of practice, she slips into his lap, arms coming up to wind around his neck, pressing her back to his front.

She feels his cock, hot and hard, against her ass, and he hisses through his teeth when she executes a full-body roll.

(Men are _simple_ ).

"Babes," he grates out, but Lamia cuts him off.

"See, the thing is," she grinds down on him, spreading her legs, positioning herself _just so_ , knowing he can see over her shoulder, see _everything_ , and can't touch, "I don't know if you're worth _my_ while. If your balance here is to be believed," she unwinds her arms, drags them up her own body, her hips, her breasts, touching what he can't, moaning luxuriantly, "you're not worth _anything_."

( _Objectively_ , Beetlejuice knows she's goading him. _Subjectively_ , he wants to - well, we'll get there).

Feeling him strain against his bonds, growl in her ear, desperate to touch her is better than dessert, better than sex, better than _anything_.

It lights a fire in her belly and _burns_. 

"I'm not fuckin' around, babe, untie me, I'm fuckin' serious, I'll-" her fingers sneak between her thighs and sighs obscenely, "- _fuck_ , I'll fuck you all the way back to the fuckin' witch trials, I swear-" his voice is low, so ragged, it catches on all her nerve endings and sends gooseflesh skittering across the flat plane of her stomach. 

"I suppose, _ah_ , you could," she's putting on a show, but that doesn't mean she's not into it, not getting off on the serrated edge of his voice, the feeling of his cock straining against his fly against her skin, how much he _wants_ and _can not have_. Lamia kicks one leg over the other so she's seated sideways in his lap, and brings her face in close again, looking into his furious eyes, yellow snakes eyes, through her lashes, "but you won't."

She stands, primly as you please, and he stares at her in mute fury. "Pay your tab, Beetlejuice."

She leaves him there, swearing a blue streak and threatening cartoonish violence for for a good ten minutes before Ivan finally throws him out. In the slightly sober silence afterwards, Lamia has a drink, and relishes the control. 

\---

_THE PRESENT_

The lounge is crowded, it always is this time of night, but she's not hard to find.

She cuts a particular figure, almost imposingly tall in her heels, dressed in inky black leather, hair a dark curtain against her skin. She's got some poor fool kneeling at her feet, one of those carefully chosen few she's deemed worthy of her time, her energy, patience, her carefully calculated cruelty. Beetlejuice makes a beeline for her so decisively that fellow dancer Lorelei has to dive for cover to avoid being trampled, moth-grey wings quivering in agitation.

Reaching her, his fingers close around her wrist, and Lamia looks up at him from her seat -

\- he won't hurt her, she knows that.

Well, he won't hurt her any more than she _wants_ to be hurt.

(That's the thing, isn't it, that she's _simple_ too. And the fact he sees right through her, right to her marrow, that sometimes she too craves subjugation, sees the burden of control, sees those opportunities to worm himself into the cracks in her facade and give her what she needs - it drives her _insane_ ).

A split second of understanding passes between them - and then he is dragging her upstairs.

Ivan, _Snuff Bomb_ , idly watches, as disinterested as a bouncer can be. She'd call out if she was in real trouble. 

Lamia nearly stumbles in her heels when he pushes her into her room, closing the door perhaps harder than is strictly necessary. He's breathing hard, staring at her with a look in his eye that would activate a lesser creatures fight-or-flight response. She feels a pulse of arousal low in her belly - the synapses that specify fear and anticipation and excitement all firing simultaneously.

Beetlejuice looks at her like he wants to eat her alive. 

He gives her no time to get her bearings, comes at her like a freight train, and she fights him, because it feels right, because squirming in his grip ignites something base and _animal_ inside of her that is so often locked up tight, out of sight, out of mind. Dragging her in close, Beetlejuice sets his teeth against the elegant column of her neck, and she gasps. "I'm all paid up," he grinds out, breath hot on the shell of her ear, and it takes every ounce of pride she has not to rub herself against him like a cat.

"I'd offer you the option of doin;' this the easy way or the hard way," He slides a hand up between their bodies and pushes her, hard, onto the bed. Lamia can feel color rising on her cheeks, a little humiliated -

She hates it.

She fucking _loves_ it. 

Beetlejuice's hands go to his belt, yanking it out of the loops - it cracks not unlike a whip, "But after your little stunt, there's only the hard way, toots. Gimme your hands."

Truth be told, Lamia considers fighting him. Her pride certainly wouldn't mind. But in the end, she offers up her wrists, face carefully neutral, gaze unguarded and very nearly vulnerable. They share the briefest moment of understanding - this is how the game is played - before he yanks her arms up over her head and secures the belt, now binding her delicate wrists, to the headboard. "You're a real cunt, you know that? Real pain in my ass, y'know I got half the broads in here wrapped around my little finger, y'know what I mean, could get any one of 'em to hop on my dick with a smile and a _thank you, Daddy_ but **no** ," Lamia watches him shuck his jacket with authoritative certainty, and shivers, "I gotta teach you a lesson you won't forget."

She nearly swallows her tongue, a thousand comebacks trying to claw their way up her throat, about how he could have any girl in the house and yet he's choosing to spend his money on _her_ , about how he's still _paying for it_ , but she clamps her mouth shut and squeezes her thighs together. 

This, he notices, and strong hands pry her knees apart. "Ah, ah, ah," he scolds her like she's a naughty schoolgirl, which she'd takes great offense to under any other circumstances. Having her legs spread forces her leather minidress to ride up around her hips - Beetlejuice makes quick work of her panties, stuffing them into his pocket like he owns them, like he owns _her_.

Which, for the next hour, he _technically_ does. 

(Lamia already knows she wont be getting them back.)

He's not gentle, nor did she expect him to be. He savages the sensitive skin of her inner thigh with his teeth, and her hips buck - he brings his arm down like a steel bar across her hips, pressing her down into the bed, inexorable and inescapable. At the apex of her thighs he finds her hot, and slick, and wanting, and she Lamia can feel him smirk against her cunt - _jackass_ \- her head kicks back and she smothers a whine as he licks her open, a starved man falling upon a feast. 

There's a certain safety in her line of work, in being professionally cruel. In the Inferno Room she is a queen, a _goddess_ , as bright and untouchable as the moon, and if she deigns to let you kiss her boots, then you are lucky indeed. With him, Beetlejuice, it is a different, _messier_ , more human sort of worship, and it cracks open her ribs and lays her bare, makes her _vulnerable_. 

" _Ah_ ," is really all she can manage, trying desperately and failing to cant her hips upwards towards the blood-hot heaven of his mouth, feeling the slick coil of orgasm begin to tighten in her belly, making the muscles in her thighs quake. He sucks, hard, on her clit and the strangled wail that works its way out of her elegant throat would be embarrassing if she could feel any emotion other than _please, please, let me come_. 

Just as she approaches the precipice, he pulls back, breaks the rhythm, finds some way to drag her backwards away from the cliffs edge - it doesn't take her long to realize this is on purpose. "Oh, I'm going to _end_ you -" it is at this precise moment he cruelly slides two fingers into her, curling them against the soft, slick grip of her body, and Lamia very nearly swallows her tongue. 

Beetlejuice chuckles darkly at her desperation. "Not before I get my money's worth, babe."

\---

It feels like hours. Days. Years. Empires rise and fall, stars are born and go supernova, and Beetlejuice _will not let her come_.

By the time he undoes her hands and flips her over, Lamia is a shaking, sweating, whimpering, _mess_. This is a side of her no one, no one save him, gets to see - The Witch _undone_ , at someone else's mercy, swearing to keep herself from begging. She's threatened to kill him at least a dozen times, threatened to learn the dark art of necromancy so she can resurrect him just to kill him again, sworn to teach some poor topside bitch to marry his sorry ass just so she can _kick it all the way back to hell_.

She'd nearly broken the headboard, struggling, tugging on his belt until the wood creaked and groaned, desperate for last little bit of friction to put her over the edge. Beetlejuice, it seemed, was intent on taking his time, savoring every last cent of his investment.

He has her on her stomach now, strong hands splayed on her lower back, pinning her to the mattress - if she still lived, she'd be hard-pressed to draw a breath - the blunt head of his cock nudging against the slick entrance to her body. She squirms in his grasp, feeling him smile lasciviously against the back of her neck, his breath hot and ragged, and then, finally, he's pushing into her."That's my good girl," he rasps, eyes locked on the place their bodies meet, watching her take every thick inch of him. 

She can't move, he's _shockingly_ strong - she just has to _lie_ there, prone, a whine working its way up her throat, and _take it_ (and to be honest, there's quite a lot to take). Beetlejuice has taken all her agency, all her control, every ounce of carefully crafted poise, her elegance, her dominance, and left her with nothing but _him_. His control over her body, her pleasure, forcing the cogs in her brain to grind to a halt and just _feel_. 

It's so good she worries she might die all over again. 

The rhythm he establishes is brutal, maddening, made all the more intense by the fact she can't move, can't thrust her hips back against his, or slide a hand between her body and the bed to touch herself. She thrashes in his grip, more wildcat than woman, hissing into the pillow every awful name she can think of, babbling near-incoherent vitriol, and she barely notices when it morphs into _please_. 

_Please, please, let me come._

It becomes almost immediately apparent that she can come like this, that the seeming eternity of edging has keyed her up so far that really any stimulus might have sent her over the edge - a _stiff breeze_ likely would have done it, a belligerent poltergeist pounding into her like the world is ending is a sure thing. Shuddering around his cock, Lamia _wails_ , the pillow muffling the hysterical edge to her ruined voice, every muscle clamping town, tight as a fist, waves of pleasure (so sharp, so acute, it nearly resembles pain), radiating through very nerve.

There's a roaring in her ears, like the sound of the ocean, and fuzzy, perfect darkness threatens the corners of her vision. 

\---

"C'mon babe, whaddya say, you up for another round?"

Lamia, buckling her shoe, looks askance at the demon lounging on her bed, smoking a cigarette down to the filter. "Don't press your luck." Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she allows the mask to settle back into place, gathers the broken piece of her facade and fits them neatly together.

Beetlejuice cackles. "C'mon, you can put it on my tab!"

For a guy with a beer gut, he's surprisingly fast - which is to be his benefit, as he has to sprint from the house to avoid being hexed.

_(Worth it.)_


End file.
